Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (49 page)

She descended the steps. The bloodstain on the concrete was still there. But Patrick was not.

“Dispatch said there’s a pair of patrol cars on the way,” he said. “But I’m afraid there’s no one down here.”

“Are you sure?”

Drew flashed his light around the basement. “Uh, well, unless you have a secret way out of here, he must have gone up the steps.”

Drew aimed his flashlight up the stairs. There were no bloody footprints on the treads. Wearing latex gloves, he knelt down and touched the blood on the floor. He slicked two fingers together.

“You’re saying he was just here?” he asked.

“Yes,” Jessica said. “Two minutes ago. As soon as I saw him, I ran upstairs and down the driveway.”

“How did he receive his injury?” he asked.

“I have no idea.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Well, the police will be here any second. They can give the place a good going over.” He stood up. “Until then, we’ll probably be safe down here.”

What?
Jessica thought.

We’ll probably be safe down here?

“Is your little girl okay?” he asked.

Jessica stared at the man. A cold hand squeezed her heart. “I never told you I had a little girl.”

Drew peeled off the gloves, tossed them into his bag.

In the flashlight beam, Jessica saw the blue chalk stains on his fingers and the deep scratch on the back of his right hand, at the same moment she noticed Patrick’s feet emerging from beneath the stairs.

And she knew. This man had never called in the 911. No one was coming. Jessica turned to run. To the stairs. To Sophie. To safety. But before she could move a hand shot out of the darkness.

Andrew Chase was upon her.

78

FRIDAY, 10:05 PM

I
T WASN’T PATRICK FARRELL. When Byrne had gone through the files at the hospital, it had all fallen into place.

Besides being treated by Patrick Farrell in the St. Joseph’s emergency room, the one thing that all five girls had in common was the ambulance service. They all lived in North Philly. They all used Glenwood Ambulance Group.

They were all treated first by Andrew Chase.

Chase had known Simon Close, and Simon had paid for that proximity with his life.

On the day she died, Nicole Taylor was not trying to write
P-A-R-K-H-U-R-S-T
on her palm. She was trying to write
P-A-R-A-M-E-D-I-C.

Byrne flipped open his cell phone, tried 911 one final time. Nothing. He checked the status. No bars. He wasn’t getting a signal. The patrol cars were not going to make it in time.

He’d have to go it alone.

Byrne stood in front of a twin, trying to shield his eyes from the rain.

Was this the house?

Think,
Kevin. What were the landmarks he had seen the day he had picked her up? He could not remember.

He turned and looked behind him.

The van parked out front. Glenwood Ambulance Group.

This was the house.

He drew his weapon, chambered a round, and hurried up the driveway.

79

FRIDAY, 10:10 PM

J
ESSICA STRUGGLED UP from the bottom of the impenetrable fog. She was sitting on the floor in her own basement. It was nearly dark. She tried to enter both of these facts into an equation, and got no acceptable results.

And then reality came roaring back.

Sophie.

She tried to get to her feet, but her legs would not respond. She was not bound in any way. Then she remembered. She had been injected with something. She touched her neck where the needle had penetrated, pulled back a dot of blood on her finger. In the faint light thrown by the flashlight behind her, the dot began to blur. She now understood the terror that the five girls had experienced.

But she was not a girl. She was a woman. A police officer.

Her hand went instinctively to her hip. Nothing there. Where was her weapon?

Upstairs. On top of the refrigerator.

Shit.

She felt nauseated for a moment, the world swimming, the floor seeming to undulate beneath her.

“It didn’t have to come to this you know,” he said. “But she fought it. She tried to throw it away herself once, but then she fought it. I’ve seen it over and over.”

The voice came from behind her. The sound was low, measured, edged with the melancholy of deep personal loss. He still held the flashlight. The beam danced and played about the room.

Jessica wanted to respond, to move, to lash out. Her spirit was willing. Her flesh was unable.

She was alone with the Rosary Killer. She had thought that backup was on the way, but it wasn’t. No one knew they were there together. Images of his victims flashed through her mind. Kristi Hamilton soaked in all that blood. The barbed-wire crown on Bethany Price’s head.

She had to keep him talking. “What . . . what do you mean?”

“They had every opportunity in life,” Andrew Chase said. “All of them. But they didn’t want it, did they? They were bright, healthy, whole. It wasn’t enough for them.”

Jessica managed to look to the top of the stairs, praying that she would not see Sophie’s little form there.

“These girls had it all, but they decided to throw it all away,” Chase said. “And for what?”

The wind howled outside the basement windows. Andrew Chase began to pace, the beam of his flashlight bouncing in the blackness.

“What chance did my little girl have?” he asked.

He has a child,
Jessica thought.
This is good.

“You have a little girl?” she asked.

Her voice sounded distant, as if she were talking through a metal pipe.

“I
had
a little girl,” he said. “She didn’t even get out of the gate.”

“What happened?” It was getting harder to form her words. Jessica didn’t know if she should make this man relive some tragedy, but she didn’t know what else to do.

“You were there.”

I was there?
Jessica thought.
What the hell is he talking about?

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jessica said.

“It’s okay,” he said. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“My . . . fault?”

“But the world went mad that night, didn’t it? Oh, yes. Evil was unleashed on the streets of this city and a great storm descended. My little girl was sacrificed. The righteous reaped reward.” His voice was rising in pitch and cadence. “Tonight I settle all debts.”

Oh my God,
Jessica thought, the memory of that brutal Christmas Eve rushing back on a wave of nausea.

He was talking about Katherine Chase.
The woman who miscarried in her squad car. Andrew and Katherine Chase.

“At the hospital they said things like ‘Oh don’t you worry, you can always have another baby.’ They don’t know. It was never the same for Kitty and me. With all the so-called miracles of modern medicine, they couldn’t save my little girl, and the Lord denied us another child.”

“It . . . it was nobody’s fault that night,” Jessica said. “It was a horrible storm. You remember.”

Chase nodded. “I remember all right. It took me nearly two hours to get to St. Katherine. I prayed to my wife’s patron saint. I offered a sacrifice of my own. But my little girl never came back.”

St. Katherine, Jessica thought. She’d been right.

Chase grabbed the nylon bag he had brought with him. He dropped it to the floor next to Jessica. “And do you really think that society is going to miss a man like Willy Kreuz? He was a pederast. A barbarian. He was the lowest form of human life.”

He reached into his bag, and began to remove items. He put them on the floor next to Jessica’s right leg. She slowly lowered her eyes. There was a cordless drill. There was a spool of sail maker’s thread, a huge curved needle, another glass syringe.

“It’s amazing what some men will tell you as if they were proud of it,” Chase said. “A few pints of bourbon. A few Percocets. All their terrible secrets bubble over.”

He began threading the needle. Depite the anger and rage in his voice, his hands were steady. “And the late Dr. Parkhurst?” he continued. “A man who used his position of authority to prey on young girls? Please. He was no different. The only thing that separated him from men like Mr. Kreuz was the pedigree. Tessa told me all about Dr. Parkhurst.”

Jessica tried to talk, but couldn’t. All her fear bottlenecked. She felt herself fade in and out of consciousness.

“Soon you will understand,” Chase said. “Easter Sunday there will be a resurrection.”

He placed the threaded needle on the floor, got within inches of Jessica’s face. In the dim light, his eyes looked burgundy. “The Lord asked Abraham for his child. And now the Lord has asked me for yours.”

Please, no, Jessica thought.

“It is time,” he said.

Jessica tried to move.

She couldn’t.

Andrew Chase walked up the steps.

Sophie.

J
ESSICA OPENED HER EYES. How long had she been out? She tried again to move. She could feel her arms, but not her legs. She tried to roll onto her side, failed. She tried to drag herself to the base of the steps, but the effort was too great.

Was she alone?

Had he left?

There was now a single candle lit. It sat on top of the dryer and threw long, shimmering shadows on the unfinished ceiling of the basement.

She strained to hear.

She nodded off again, startling herself awake seconds later.

Footfalls behind her. It was so hard to keep her eyes open.
So
hard. Her limbs felt like stone.

She turned her head as far as she could. When she saw Sophie in the arms of this monster, a freezing rain rinsed her insides.

No, she thought.

No!

Take me.

I’m right here. Take
me
!

Andrew Chase put Sophie down on the floor next to her. Sophie’s eyes were closed, her body limp.

Inside Jessica’s veins, the adrenaline fought the drug he had given her. If she could just get up and get one clear shot at him, she knew she could hurt him. He was heavier than her, but just about the same height. One blow. With the rage and anger roiling inside her, it was all she needed.

When he turned away from her momentarily, she saw that he had found her Glock. He now had it in the waistband of his pants.

Out of his field of vision, Jessica moved an inch closer to Sophie. The effort seemed to exhaust her completely. She had to rest.

She tried to see if Sophie was breathing. She couldn’t tell.

Andrew Chase turned back to them, the drill now in his hand.

“It is time to pray,” he said.

He reached into his pocket, removed a carriage bolt.

“Prepare her hands,” he said to Jessica. He knelt down, put the cordless drill in Jessica’s right hand. Jessica felt the bile rise in her throat. She was going to be sick.

“What?”

“She is only sleeping. I’ve given her only a small amount of midazolam. Drill her hands and I’ll let her live.” He took a rubber band out of his pocket and put it around Sophie’s wrists. He placed a rosary between her fingers. A rosary with no decades. “If you don’t do it, I will. Then I will send her to God right in front of you.”

“I . . . I can’t . . .”

“You have thirty seconds.” He leaned forward, depressed Jessica’s right forefinger on the trigger of the drill, testing it. The battery was fully charged. The sound of the steel twisting in the air was nauseating. “Do it now and she will live.”

Sophie looked at Jessica.

“She’s my daughter,” Jessica managed.

Chase’s face remained implacable, unreadable. The dancing candlelight drew long shadows over his features. He took the Glock from his waistband, drew back the hammer, and placed the gun to Sophie’s head. “You have twenty seconds.”

“Wait!”

Jessica felt her strength recede, return. Her fingers trembled.

“Think of Abraham,” Chase said. “Think of the determination that compelled him to the altar. You can do it.”

“I . . . I can’t.”

“We all must sacrifice.”